


he knew (and he always would)

by iamrenstark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depressed Peter Parker, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Oh My God, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker-centric, Poor Peter Parker, Sad Peter Parker, Suicidal Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 06:35:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamrenstark/pseuds/iamrenstark
Summary: Peter Parker was depressed. He probably always had been, and probably always would be.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 200





	he knew (and he always would)

**Author's Note:**

> bsbsbsshsh hi i know this is short but it's good i swear

Peter Parker knew he was depressed, he'd known for a while. It wasn't like he was dumb enough to think that normal people thought the things he thought, and did the things he did. 

Peter had been depressed for a lot longer than one might suspect. It didn't stem from his Uncle Ben's death or from becoming Spider-Man (though that didn't exactly _help_), no, it didn't stem from anything. 

When he was twelve, after a small fight with Ned that he thought would ruin their friendship (they made up the next day), he had come home and collapsed on his bed, crying his eyes out, thinking nothing could be worse. 

Peter knew what self-harm was, he'd learned about it in school and on the internet, and in most instances, it was said that self-harm helped ease stress. So he figured why not try it?

And he did, grabbing a pair of scissors from the kitchen and locking himself in his room, carefully dragging one of the blades against his wrist. It didn't help with his stress, it didn't make everything go away, it didn't _anything_. 

But he did it again, covering his wrist with little red scratches. He hid the scissors and fell asleep with tear tracks dried on his face. Waking up the next morning, he prodded at the scabs in interest, before panicking. 

Ben and May would _freak_, and Ned would feel so guilty. . . He made a habit of wearing long sleeves, and soon the scabs were gone. He didn't think about it again for a while, not thinking to try it again. 

Little things started to make him stressed and upset, wanting to cry when he missed a homework question or had to do the simplest thing. One night, without even a reason, he found the pair of scissors again. 

Sitting on his bed, he covered both arms with scratches, tears rolling down his face. It still didn't help, in fact, even looking at them made him cry. He _hated_ the scars marring his skin. 

Peter covered them up with fake smiles and long sleeves. His thoughts became darker everyday. Sometimes when he walked to school, he pondered hesitating in the road, but never did. 

He thought about the sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet and how _easy_ it would be to just sleep. He thought about pressing the scissors down a little hard when he scratched at his wrists, but he never did. 

Peter soon realized that he didn't like not being able to show his arms even in his own home, anxiety spiking anytime someone mention to go swimming or barely being able to breath when the doctors checked his pulse during appointments. 

When he was aware of the upcoming appointments, he'd doodle on his arm or come up with reasons he couldn't take his long sleeves off. Thankfully, he always got away with it. 

He didn't cut his wrists anymore. No, he knew there were other places. So he began slicing little lines on his thighs whenever he became slightly displeased, whenever he had his dark thoughts. 

It didn't help, it still hurt, it always hurt, but yet he couldn't stop. He soon found that the little blades from razors were much more smooth when cutting skin, so he hid a few of those in his room, the cutting becoming a nightly process. 

When he was fourteen, he lost his uncle and got bit by a radioactive spider. The first thing he did was slash long streaks of red across his thighs, staring with blurry eyes as the gashes healed before his eyes, leaving no scars. 

He began his nightly adventures as a vigilante, purposely not dodging hits, and maybe letting the muggers get a few swipes with their knives before he webbed them up. 

Peter was a hero, and he knew something was wrong with him, some nights he wished he was worse, wished he wanted to kill himself, but he didn't, _couldn't._

Peter met Tony Stark, fought the Avengers, got a new suit, and yeah, he was excited. He could still be happy. He could laugh with his friends and have jokes, and smile at memes or videos, but he was still depressed. 

He didn't only get sad at night like some sort of cliché, no, it hit him during the day too, when he was in class and suddenly couldn't hold back his tears, or when he was in the lab with Mr. Stark and couldn't _do _anything because he was suddenly so tired. 

He was always tired and sad and there was something wrong with him. He knew it, he'd always known. Peter had family, he had friends, he had a billionaire mentor, he was a superhero, but he was depressed. 

He had been for a while and he didn't see a future where he wasn't. Nobody ever found out because he didn't want them to. Nobody else knew. But Peter did. 

He knew.


End file.
